


Christmas Sarabande

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Canon, Post-War, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dolokhov and Sonya get married after the war. But Sonya is still in love with Nikolai... Translated from Russian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Sarabande

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translation. The original is written by Crazy_Maestro and located [HERE](http://ficbook.net/readfic/1690461).
> 
> Si je vous dérange si. (French) - If I am so much in your way.  
>  _My semester and a half of French is no enough to tell me if this is correct, grammatically or otherwise, so I am trusting the author of the original on this. If any French speakers want to tell me the correct French translation, please do so and I will change it._

_Sonya lay in bed under several blankets. She was pale and beads of sweat covered her forehead. Heavy velvet curtains separated her from the city bathed in morning light, from anyone who might accidently witness her grief._

_“My Fedia…my fair-haired Fedia,” Sonya mumbled, as though she was delirious or else still half-asleep._

_Madam Dolokhov’s grief was compounded twice-fold by the fact that she knew that the tragedy that had befallen her was all her fault._

***

Sonya put aside her quill and crumpled up yet another ink-filled page. She could not find the right words to write this letter. She had often thought of what she would stay, turned over in her mind every accusation she wanted to throw at Dolokhov… But now she had no thoughts left. Sonya hit the table with one hand, angry at herself, then stood and paced to the window. 

Winter had bundled Moscow up into a warm, white fur coat. Snow had been falling for the past few days. All of Moscow’s youth amused themselves, riding from party to party in open barouches. They sang songs in voices strong and free like birds, laughing as they pushed one of their friends out of the barouche into the nearest snowdrift, and not one grey-haired general or ministry bureaucrat could stand in the way of their antics. It seemed the entire city was just waiting for Christmas – the holiday spirit had already seeped into the houses and souls of all the people. Except for Sonya. The young woman stood at the window hugging herself, watched the snow and felt sorry for herself and her ill fate. She shouldn’t have agreed back then, she shouldn’t have… But she had suddenly felt so lonely when Nikolai, her darling Nikolai, had suddenly announced that he was marrying Maria Bolkonski. When Natasha, prancing around, babbled about the virtues of Count Bezukhov. And no one wanted or cared to hear her weeping heart, torn by the agonies of love, threatening to burst from her breast. No, she did not cry. She had let Nikolai go – that had been her conscious and fair decision. And if his soul longed for…Maria, then she ought to step aside. But her hope, the hope she had held for so long, egged on by sleepless nights of looking at a portrait of her beloved, the hope to love and be loved, was gone. A quiet despair embraced her with slimy fingers. 

And then there he was, Fyodor Dolokhov, war hero and a well-to-do heir. With a dazzling smile, his blue eyes sparking, he proposed once again with such confidence that Sonya felt she had no choice but to agree to be his wife. In that moment, she couldn’t even quite say what she felt for Dolokhov, all her thoughts were on Nikolai and his upcoming wedding.

Dolokhov did not limit his wife in anything. He paid for the best hairstylists, expensive jewelry, was willing to fulfill her every whim… Sonya huffed, pushing the memories aside. Of course her husband was merely trying to buy her love, seeing her coldness and aloofness toward him! This passion of his was obvious to everyone, even to Natasha Bezukhov who hardly had time for anything these days that didn’t include managing her husband. Yet, Natasha did not understand Sonya, did not perceive Dolokhov’s self-serving motives. After some time the Countess began looking at her friend with increasing bewilderment and surprise and eventually stopped visiting altogether. And so Sonya was left alone with her hypocrite of a husband. 

It wasn’t that she was completely disgusted by him – after all, he was her husband and she had to share her bed with him, which would have been quite difficult to live with if she had found him completely unbearable. Dolokhov was handsome, possessed a military grace, had a sharp sense of humor and when he laughed his smile was just as sharp. And, on top of this, he was a wonderful dancer. This was perhaps the one thing that Sonya liked about him completely and unconditionally. At the balls everyone now watched not Natasha – Bezukhov was a horrible dancer – but the Dolokhovs as they spun around as though they were as light as the seeds of a dandelion. Dolokhov was so proud of his wife; he held his head high as he led her past the other couples, her arm through his, and his blue eyes sparkled. In these moments, Sonya forgot herself and felt perfectly happy. Only for a few moments, of course. Then, the euphoria would pass, her eyes would find Nikolai where he stood beside his wife, and Sonya would unconsciously squeeze her husband’s hand, which made him turn to her with a look of concerned tenderness. Sonya always wished to be rid of him in that moment, him and Maria. They were both so terribly in the way in those moments! In the end, it were the balls that spelled her downfall…

It was fate, Sonya was certain. So many things could not happen on the same day by mere coincidence: Fyodor’s departure for Petersburg, Countess Rostov’s illness, the ball… Nikolai approached her himself, asked her for a waltz. Then another and another. He held her confidently and firmly, not like Dolokhov. Sonya’s husband was always too careful, as though he held not a woman but a porcelain statuette in his arms… Nikolai was different. Sonya looked at him with half-forgotten adoration, listened as he talked of the life of his peasants at the estate, the hay for his horses… They did not talk about family. Later, breathless and tired, they walked in the park – styled in the French labyrinth manner – and reminisced about their childhood. 

“We were so foolish then, Sophie!” Rostov laughed. 

“Yes, yes,” Sonya said, nodding and clenching her jaw until it hurt. “A couple of silly fools. But those were the best times…”

“But you are happy with Dolokhov, aren’t you?” Nikolai asked considerately. 

Sonya couldn’t keep it all in anymore and told Nikolai everything, poured out all the pain that she had accumulated in her farce of a marriage to Fyodor. She poured out all of her worries and angst, all the things that kept her up at night and constricted her chest. Then, without thinking about it, like a child, she reached for his lips with hers, winding her arms around his shoulders. Sonya was not proud of what happened next, what she allowed to happen. She felt the cold surface of the bench beneath her, fest Rostov’s movements inside her, but she did not feel the euphoria and sweetness which she would have expected from the moment. Nikolai did not love her; he was merely trying to comfort her in the way she wanted him to. After, he brushed himself off and buttoned up, then kissed Sonya’s flushed cheek and escorted her to the waiting carriage. They did not look at each other. A feeling of shame hung between them, as though they had broken something irreparably, and that feeling blocked out all other thoughts and made it hard to breathe. They said goodbye in a similarly rushed manner – Nikolai gave a curt bow, Sonya nodded back and the coachman drove her away, toward home. Home, where Sonya found a warm but empty bed. Once in bed, Sonya buried her head in the pillow and sobbed. That fateful day had brought her nothing but disgust, as though she had been publically spit upon by a homeless vagrant rather than made love to by Nikolai Rostov. 

A week later, Fyodor returned to Moscow, bringing her a large bouquet of tea roses and a greyhound’s pup. Feeling terribly guilty, Sonya went to his room that night. She put one hand on his chest and lightly kissed his cheek, rousing him. He blinked blearily at first, but on seeing Sonya lying beside him on the coverlet, a fire sparked in his eyes. Sonya could see it even in the dull light of the moon. She had always feared that mad gleam in his eyes, but Fyodor was surprisingly gentle with her, despite his own longing. He undid her nightshirt, barely touching the fabric, tenderly kissed her shoulders, collarbone, stomach. He sucked on her nipples, making Sonya bite her lip and fist her hands in the sheets. Dolokhov moved slowly inside her, never taking his eyes off her face so that Sonya thought she would burn from embarrassment, but only her body burned – from longing. Fyodor pressed his body flush against her and kissed her lips, trying to show with every kiss how grateful he was and how much he needed her. When it was over, he left one last kiss on her temple and fell asleep, holding her so tightly, that it took Sonya half the night to extricate herself. 

The snowfall ceased. Sonya noticed that a warmth had spread in her abdomen but she still hadn’t managed to find the right words. How could she tell her husband that she carried a child but that that child was not his but that of his former friend, Nikolai Rostov? Sonya’s heart could not deceive her and it told her that the child she carried was the fruit of her summer adultery. Even in the womb, the baby made her melt from tenderness and love, so she did not have a single doubt in her mind that it was not her husband’s. She needed to break the news to Dolokhov now, before she started to show. Otherwise, she would give him false hope, and Sonya did not want that at all. 

Sonya was still lost in thought when Fyodor came barreling into the room, leaving a wet trail on the floor. He ran up to her with boyish enthusiasm and fell to his knees before her, laughing at his own foolishness. “Sonya, darling, let’s go to the woods! You cannot imagine how wonderful it is there right now, how beautiful. You are so pale – it is imperative that you get some fresh air. It’s almost Christmas, darling. Let’s celebrate so that all those Rostovs and Bezukhovs die of jealousy, so that all of Moscow talks of it!” Dolokhov tossed his hat in the air. 

Sonya stepped away from him and spoke with as much cold restraint as she could manage. “Don’t be silly, Fyodor Ivanovich. I do not wish to go to the woods with you. In fact, I must have a very serious conversation with you.” 

Dolokhov’s smile faded. He stood and paced over to the sofa without taking his eyes off his wife. He sat, indicating his readiness to listen. 

Sonya took a breath. “I have news for you. It will not make you happy but I have no right to keep this from you any longer. I am with child…” Fyodor jumped up, eyes bright, but Sonya stopped him with a gesture. “Don’t interrupt me. I am with child, Fyodor Ivanovich, but it is not yours. I will not tell you who the father is, but it is your own fault that this happened. You suffocated me with your courtship, constantly followed me like a shadow wherever I went. You tried to buy my love! All the flowers, the expensive presents – all tools in your attempts to make me love you! But I told you the first time you proposed, I told you that my heart was taken! But you did not take me seriously…because of your cockiness and egotism. You left me no choice but to do such a thing. Now you are free to do whatever you’d like. I will not stand in your way.” Sonya wiped away the tears that ran down her cheek. This speech had been hard for her and, for some reason, did not bring with it even a drop of relief. The whole thing was painful and disgusting, but she could no longer hide the truth from her husband. 

Dolokhov’s expression was frightening. His face had changed astoundingly during Sonya’s confession. The first few moments, his expression was filled with unadulterated pain, as though he had just lost his right hand. Then the pain changed to contempt, despair, and finally – unabashed fury. Sonya was suddenly more afraid of him than she had ever been. Fyodor snarled, like a cornered animal, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. There was a dark, angry flame in his eyes. That look made Sonya feel like she was trapped in ice and burning in an inferno all at once. Her breath caught when he made a move toward her, convinced that he was going to kill her. Instead he spoke, quietly, every word spat out with unsettling venom. “I will not give you a divorce, Sonya…darling. I will take some measures, but you go on and make sweet with whomever you like, do be so kind.” Fyodor stalked out of the study and Sonya shrank away from him as he passed her. 

After waiting to make sure her husband would not come back, Sonya sank onto the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Now he is writing letters that tell of what she has done, intent on sending them to all of Moscow. Or riding to the Rostovs to kill Nikolai. Or going out to shame her in front of all their friends and acquaintances… 

A sudden sound came from the bedroom. Sharp, and only one. Some sort of bang or… Sonya fell in a faint. 

***

The most fashionable salons in Moscow, where the richest and most influential families celebrated Christmas that year, were buzzing with the news that had shocked everyone. Only a couple of days before Christmas Eve, an officer of the Semenov regiment, Fyodor Dolokhov, committed suicide. He shot himself, in his own home, practically in front of his wife, Sophie. The police took every precaution to keep quiet every detail, so naturally everyone knew everything. It may surprise the reader to know just how many young, and not so young, Moscow ladies felt terribly envious of Madame Dolokhov. 

***

_“You must stop tormenting yourself so, or you will lose your milk,” the doctor tells her reproachfully as he makes out a prescription for some nerve-soothing drops. “Your labor was already difficult, there’s no need to overexert your body even more.”_

_“Thank you, Doctor,” Sonya says flatly, turning away to show that it is time he went._

_The doctor shakes his head and leaves with a bow. Sonya, carefully holding the baby in her arms a little tighter, reaches over to the bedside table and picks up a crumpled piece of paper. It is obvious that the paper has been folded, crumpled, and smoothed out again multiple times._ Si je vous dérange si _, she reads, for what seems like the hundredth time, the words written out in a bold, scrawling hand, and her heart tightens with a dull, throbbing pain._

_“Si je vous dérange si…” she repeats, her entire body trembling with sobs as she holds tightly to the fair-haired, blue-eyed boy in her arms. “My Fedia…my little, fair-haired Fedia.”_


End file.
